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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25368913">ends of smoky days</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfcharacter/pseuds/halfcharacter'>halfcharacter</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Brothers, Canonical Character Death, Canonical Child Abuse, Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Glenn is once again the elephant in the room, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Memory Alteration due to PTSD, Memory Loss, One-Sided Attraction, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Worth Issues, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Worldbuilding, sex as a coping mechanism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:35:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,333</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25368913</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfcharacter/pseuds/halfcharacter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They have duels in his head, sometimes, as if his head wasn’t already a fucked-up battleground of paranoia and self-hatred. The Glenn of his memory and the Glenn of his <i>memory</i>, and which one wins depends on how many bruises Sylvain is sporting that day and how utterly hollow he feels inside, sitting behind the stables so Seteth doesn’t find him, drinking wine he smuggled into the monastery until he blacks out.</p><p>He doesn’t want to talk about it with Ingrid, because the Glenn of Ingrid’s memory is infallible, carefully placed upon a pedestal (and doesn’t he do that too? what a hypocrite), and he also doesn’t want to talk about Glenn with Dimitri, who seems as though he is going to sink right through the floor sometimes with the weight of his self-imposed guilt.</p><p>And Felix?</p><p>Well, Felix.</p><p>[a piece for Sincerity: A Sylvain Gautier Zine]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd &amp; Felix Hugo Fraldarius &amp; Ingrid Brandl Galatea &amp; Sylvain Jose Gautier, Glenn Fraldarius &amp; Sylvain Jose Gautier, One-sided Sylvain Jose Gautier/Glenn Fraldarius</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>ends of smoky days</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"I have loved since you.<br/>But when the new paint gets scratched,<br/>there you are; underneath."</p><p>- A Softer World, 1073<br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>Sylvain has always hated the idea of crypts. Cold, dark, full of dry and desiccated bones. The weight of too much family history hanging over you.<br/><br/>Up in Northern Faerghus, where the nights are colder and longer than anywhere else in Fódlan, there’s an old folktale that the wise women tell. It narrates the capture of a prisoner during the time of the War of the Eagle and Lion. The prisoner, according to the version Sylvain’s nursemaid told, awakens to find themselves in a cell, bound hand and foot. On a table in front of them sits seven white candles, which begin to burn down slowly as the prisoner realizes the darkness will be their final resting place.<br/><br/>The story terrified him as a child, though Miklan always seemed to be morbidly engrossed by it. Sylvain never could figure out why anyone considered this a suitable tale for children, but, he muses, as he swings his scythe around and beheads yet another training dummy, famine, darkness and death are always one step closer in Gautier and Sreng than the rest of Faerghus.<br/><br/>House Gautier’s family crypt lies a few hours’ ride from the westernmost watchtower along the border between Faerghus and Sreng, carved into the depths of a rocky hillside. The hill is all sharp angles and treacherous lines of dusky pink granite—no grass grows on its surface, and no animals venture near. Sylvain had asked his father once, when his father had been in a particularly good mood, why the Gautier crypt was so far away from the castle, uncharacteristically so for most Faerghan nobility.<br/><br/>“We are the Kingdom’s defence against the invaders,” Margrave Gautier had intoned, as if he were reciting a lecture he had heard many times before, committed to memory. “The spirits of Gautier protect the border in life and in death, my son.”<br/><br/>The entrance of the tomb faced north, as everything in Gautier did. Sylvain had visited the crypt a few times as a child with his father, stepping over the threshold, turning once each time to look back at that last glimpse of sunlight before rounding the bend in the hallway and plunging into darkness. Under his father’s heavy gaze, he would brush down the dust that had settled on each carved effigy, wrinkling his nose and grimacing at the smell of cloying incense burning in his nostrils. The first time he had sneezed at the overpowering smell, his father had cuffed him around the head.<br/><br/>“This is hallowed ground,” Margrave Gautier had said, in that tone of voice that always made Sylvain feel very small. “These are the bones of House Gautier.”<br/><br/>“Yes father,” Sylvain had whispered. Underneath the stare of his great-great-great- whatever-something-father, he swept the dirt off with a reed whisk, and placed a new stick of incense on the altar.<br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>The Fraldarius family crypt lies just a few miles away from Fraldarius castle, sheltered in the protection of a sacred forest. Sylvain has never been inside, and he never will. Their crypt, as with all within Faerghus, is restricted solely to members of the family.<br/><br/>He watches the funeral procession move solemnly past him and inside, six soldiers carrying the carved stone sarcophagus between them.<br/><br/>It’s empty, because what’s left of Glenn lies somewhere in the mud and blood of Duscur. Lost, like so many things were that day.<br/><br/>Rodrigue enters first, the Aegis shield on one arm and a torch in his other hand. He is followed by Lady Fraldarius, so heavily smothered in mourning attire that all her features are completely swallowed up in a sea of black lace. Ingrid sobs louder in his arms as the heavy coffin rolls past them, and Sylvain pulls her closer.<br/><br/>Then he spots Felix, walking behind his brother’s empty casket. Glenn’s sword is in his hands, the only thing they could bring back. His face is completely stoic, but Sylvain knows inside he’s breaking.<br/><br/>Sylvain waits until the family vanish into the crypt before he allows himself to cry, curling up around Ingrid, who will also never be allowed inside to weep over Glenn’s empty grave, lamenting the absence of his bones.<br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>Sometimes, in the dark early hours of the morning, after Sylvain has left the arms of his newest lover and returned to his own bed, soiled in unimaginable countless ways, he will lie awake and think of the last memory he has of Glenn.<br/><br/>He has trouble remembering things, sometimes. Whether it was due to Miklan’s fists or the end of his father’s lance, he has no idea. Maybe it’s a mixture of both.<br/><br/>He remembers this one, however, even if he doesn’t remember it completely, and that’s what Sylvain clings to, because all his other memories are ringed in black and red, Miklan’s mouth spitting venom; his hands formed into fists as he throws Sylvain down into the dark depths of the well, as he shoves him into the weapon rack in the armoury, as he cheerfully waves goodbye and sets off back down the mountain, snow beginning to fall.<br/><br/>In this memory, awash in purples and golds and soft, honey light, like a picture in one of Ingrid’s childhood books, Glenn rears back on his horse, Bucephalus’ flanks heaving proudly. Glenn twists in his saddle, sunlight glinting off the silver amulets woven through the wine-dark strands of his hair as he waves goodbye, face cracked into one of those famous smirks that Sylvain was sure had charmed many a nobleman’s son or daughter into his embrace.<br/><br/>That’s all Sylvain remembers of that day, and although he remembers Glenn opening his mouth as he rode away, he doesn’t remember the words. Glenn opens his mouth, his lips move vaguely, and then… nothing. It ends.<br/><br/>Sylvain knows it’s a romanticized recollection of what must have really occurred, because the soft sunset light of his memory never happened. He’s asked Ingrid what happened that day and she had looked at him funny for a long moment before replying that it had been overcast, like so many other days in Faerghus, and as Glenn rode off he had called back that he sure hoped the weather in Duscur was better than <em>this </em>shit.<br/><br/>They have duels in his head, sometimes, as if his head wasn’t already a fucked-up battleground of paranoia and self-hatred. The Glenn of his memory and the Glenn of his <em>memory</em>, and which one wins depends on how many bruises Sylvain is sporting that day and how utterly hollow he feels inside, sitting behind the stables so Seteth doesn’t find him, drinking wine he smuggled into the monastery until he blacks out.<br/><br/>He doesn’t want to talk about it with Ingrid, because the Glenn of Ingrid’s memory is infallible, carefully placed upon a pedestal (and doesn’t he do that too? what a hypocrite), and he also doesn’t want to talk about Glenn with Dimitri, who seems as though he is going to sink right through the floor sometimes with the weight of his self-imposed guilt.<br/><br/>And Felix?<br/><br/>Well, Felix.<br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>“I bet you wish Glenn were here, huh?” Miklan-in-his-nightmares snarls, as Sylvain loses his grip on the damp mossy bricks and plummets into the well. “I bet you wish <em>he </em>were your brother instead, don’t you? Well he’s <em>not</em>. And he never will be.”<br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>“What did Glenn mean to you?” Rodrigue asked him one day, a few years after the funeral. It was the anniversary, and they were sitting at a memorial feast in the main hall of Fraldarius castle. Sylvain had stared into one of the hearths for a long moment, the brightness of the fire searing his retinas, before he turned to Rodrigue, finishing off his glass of wine.<br/><br/>“He was… a good friend.”<br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>“Who’s Glenn?” asked the boy, as he pulled out and Sylvain winced at the sting of fresh new cuts. “I won’t lie, I’m a bit offended, but whatever man. I get it.”<br/><br/></p><hr/><p><em><br/>What did Glenn mean to you, Sylvain? </em>The voice in his head whispers to him, as he runs up the steps of Conand Tower, feet skidding against the wet stone, lashed with rainfall blown in by the howling wind outside. He can hear Dimitri and the Professor’s voice behind him, yelling at him to slow down.<br/><br/><em>Who was he?<br/><br/></em>He can be sloppy when he’s bone-tired and dead on his feet, and he misjudges one day in class, magic burning all the way down his arm. He’s not as naturally talented as Annette and Mercedes at control, and he yelps in surprise and stifles the flow, watching as the flames recede and his skin turns a violent, angry shade of red.<br/><br/>Everyone jumps up immediately to help, but Sylvain laughs them away and tells them it’s fine, he’s <em>fine</em>. Really.<br/><br/>“I’m worried about you, Sylvain,” Mercedes whispers, as she bathes his forearm in a wash of faith magic, cool against his inflamed skin.<br/><br/>“I’m just not as good as you,” Sylvain grins, and she looks up at him sadly.<br/><br/>“It’s not the burn,” she replies quietly, so that no one else can hear. “I’m worried that you don’t take care of yourself.”<br/><br/><em>Who was he to you?<br/><br/></em>He dreams of purples and golds, of a pale horse and its rider.<br/><br/><em>Who was he to you?<br/><br/></em>Sylvain swings his crescent sickle; his horse is black and his armour too, polished obsidian against the fire-bright red of his hair.<br/><br/><em>I have no idea.<br/><br/></em></p><hr/><p><br/>“Sylvain, did you hurt yourself?” Glenn had asked one day, as they sat down on the benches by the side of the training ring, watching Felix and Dimitri and Ingrid whack each other with small wooden practice swords. Sylvain hadn’t joined them, because he was older (Goddess, he felt <em>older</em>) and had hit a growth spurt that would have been an unfair advantage over the three of them.<br/><br/>Sylvain looked down at where his shirt sleeves had pulled back, exposing the bruises there, yellowing with age. His brain scrambled for an excuse, so he fell back on the old, easy one, and grinned.<br/><br/>“Oh, you know. Having fun, the usual. It’s not fun unless you feel it for a few days after, you know?”<br/><br/>Glenn had merely looked at him, uncrossing his arms and leaning forward to take one of Sylvain’s hands in his own. His hands were small, delicate. Not the kind of hands Sylvain was used to. Miklan’s hands always seemed so large and imposing when they gripped Sylvain’s wrists.<br/><br/>“You know, I’ve never liked Miklan,” Glenn began, turning over Sylvain’s hand so that he could study his palm, like one of those fortune tellers Sylvain sometimes saw in town, beckoning him to approach their stall, smelling of pine-and-rain magic.<br/><br/>Sylvain laughed awkwardly. “Miklan can be… a lot, sometimes. It’s hard for him.”<br/><br/>Glenn hummed. “Perhaps. Doesn’t change the fact he’s a fucking prick though.”<br/><br/>Sylvain choked quietly, gently trying to pull his hand away. Glenn’s grip tightened around his palm.<br/><br/>“Glenn…”<br/><br/>“I went to go see one of those fortune tellers in town once,” Glenn said, seemingly ignoring Sylvain’s protest. “Walked up to her stall, dropped some coins down. Might have flirted with her too, a little. I was drunk, but don’t tell my father that.”<br/><br/>Sylvain smiled. “I won’t.” Rodrigue probably wouldn’t have minded, either way.<br/><br/>“She takes my hand. Stares at it for like, maybe half a minute. Then she drops my palm like I’ve just touched something nasty, and you know what she says?”<br/><br/>Sylvain shook his head.<br/><br/>“Tells me I have the perfect hands for pleasing the ladies. Well, I had to have a laugh at that, didn’t I? Turns out my palm has nothing interesting to say at all.”<br/><br/>Glenn let go of Sylvain’s hand, and turned to stare out at the training ring. Sylvain followed his gaze, where Felix and Ingrid had dropped their training swords and begun moving through basic spear motions. Dimitri was busy poking at something in the dirt.<br/><br/><em>Why couldn’t you have been my brother instead? </em>Sylvain had nearly asked. <em>Why did Felix get you, and not I?<br/><br/></em>Ingrid chose that moment to run up to the two of them, loudly lamenting that Dimitri had broken his training lance, <em>again</em>, and Glenn stood up to pick her up in his arms, swinging her around while she shrieked.<br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>Years later, Sylvain muses that perhaps the fortune teller had seen Glenn’s fate, and had chosen to spare him the knowledge of it.<br/><br/>He wonders if it would have changed anything at all, if Glenn had known.<br/><br/><em>Maybe…<br/><br/></em>Sylvain pushes the thought down. Glenn was so <em>bright</em>, eyes sparkling like starlight against the night sky whenever he would take the four of them out to study the constellations. He’d point out the Faerghan Lion, the Goddess, and then the Wyvern, and then his voice would drop to a dramatic stage-whisper as he told them the Almyran folktale of the Wyvern and the Crafty Boy, who tricked the proudest of all the Wyverns into being his mount with a golden egg made of spun sugar.<br/><br/>It was a story they had all heard before, and yet every time Glenn told it the story changed—he had been banned from reciting it in polite company after one drunk recital in which the Wyvern had apparently gained knowledge of local Faerghan curse words and Glenn had formed them into a devastatingly obscene tirade as he cursed the Crafty Boy for his guile.<br/><br/>Out here in the fields beside Castle Fraldarius, however, with only the night sky above them and the soft, damp grass beneath them, Glenn could tell them any version he wished, knowing that four young pairs of eyes would widen in excitement and glee, ears drinking in every word.<br/><br/>Glenn’s stories were <em>far</em> better than his nursemaid’s.<br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>He stares at his brother. Miklan has the Lance of Ruin in his hand, gloved hand gripped tight around the shaft as if he’s afraid it will fly out of his grip and into the hands of its <em>rightful </em>owner.<br/><br/>Sylvain doesn’t want that damn lance. He’s never wanted it.<br/><br/>The lance twitches and shudders in Miklan’s too-tight grip, and Sylvain imagines himself there; Miklan holding him up by his hair, slamming him into the doorframe, skull cracking against the solid wood.<br/><br/>That night, as he carefully props it up against his bedroom wall, there’s a knock at the door. It opens without waiting for Sylvain to answer.<br/><br/>Felix stands there in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. They stare at each other for a while, heavy silence between them, before Sylvain shrugs and asks, “what?”<br/><br/>“You didn’t…” Felix begins. He stops. “We missed you at dinner.”<br/><br/>“I couldn’t eat,” Sylvain replies brusquely. Felix clearly doesn’t like that answer, because he scowls, crossing his arms over his chest.<br/><br/>“Don’t punish yourself for… <em>his </em>sins, Sylvain. He was a bastard, and we all knew it.”<br/><br/>Sylvain stalks over to the door, suddenly irritated. “And what would <em>you </em>know about that, Felix?”<br/><br/>Felix doesn’t give any ground. “Miklan was a poor excuse for a brother, and you know it. He’s not worth your grief, Sylvain.”<br/><br/>Something in Sylvain snaps, and he moves before thinking, shoving Felix out of his room. “I don’t want to hear your thoughts on <em>good brothers </em>right now, Felix.”<br/><br/>Felix stumbles back, surprised, before he narrows his eyes and his mouth twitches. He looks so much like Glenn it burns.<br/><br/>“Don’t tell me this is about <em>Glenn</em>.”<br/><br/>Sylvain stops. His mouth is dry. “No,” he replies quickly, but it comes out weak and pathetic.<br/><br/>Felix snarls, and shoves back. “I don’t want to think about Glenn, Sylvain. Stop making it about <em>him </em>all the fucking time. He’s <em>dead</em>, Miklan is dead, and we’re the ones left. They’re dead and they’re not coming back, so stop wasting your time on fucking <em>ghosts</em>.”<br/><br/>He turns around and walks away.<br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>In his dreams, he lies bound to a bed.<br/><br/>Before him, the only source of light in the charcoal black that surrounds him, are seven white candles.<br/><br/>Sylvain struggles against his bonds, but they remain tight around his wrists. The more he fights, the more the rope cuts into his skin, until finally with a pained gasp he feels the slow trickle of blood run down his arms.<br/><br/>There’s a sudden footstep on the stone floor, and Sylvain sits up as much as he can, neck straining against the pressure of his bonds.<br/><br/>In the low light, he can barely make out Felix’s face. Felix stares at him wordlessly, face shadowed by the dim light of the flickering candles. As Sylvain stares, more figures step forward: Ingrid. Dimitri. Rodrigue. His father. Miklan.<br/><br/>They each pick up one of the candles and start to move away as Sylvain wrestles against the rope. He calls out to them, but although his mouth is open, he makes no sound. They move further and further into the darkness, footsteps growing fainter and fainter, until finally the light of their candles are extinguished, and Sylvain is left in silence.<br/><br/>There is one candle remaining, and Sylvain knows who it belongs to. He closes his eyes, but Glenn’s face is still there. Glenn picks up the candle and moves over to the bed.<br/><br/>“Sylvain,” he says, tilting the candle so that the hot wax begins to collect at the edge of the taper, threatening to drip onto Sylvain’s bare flesh. Sylvain stares at him wordlessly. “Sylvain,” he says again, and he sounds so <em>disappointed</em>.<br/><br/>“Yes?” Sylvain croaks, finally finding his voice.<br/><br/>“<em>Wake up</em>.”<br/><br/>Sylvain wakes up just as the molten wax hits his skin.<br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>He slips on his dark armour and picks up his scythe. Garreg Mach. The Millennium Festival. Dimitri and the Professor may be dead, but Ingrid and Felix are still at his side.<br/><br/>“Are you ready to go?” Ingrid asks from her Pegasus. “We haven’t much time.”<br/><br/>Sylvain nods and adjusts the reins. Behind him, he can feel Felix climb onto the back of his horse. It’s three days to Garreg Mach if they’re not delayed, but they have no idea what they’ll find when they near the monastery. They don’t even know if anyone else will be there. But they must try.<br/><br/>Felix leans forward and wraps his arms around Sylvain’s waist. He shifts to get comfortable, and Sylvain can hear Felix’s amulet clink against the back of his breastplate.<br/><br/>Sylvain looks over his shoulder. The silver amulet is shaped like the Aegis shield, woven into the dark purple wash of Felix’s hair, secured in place with a few hair pins. Ingrid has one too, pinned in her hair. Hers is shaped like a crescent moon.<br/><br/>Sylvain’s hair is too short for a hair piece, but he keeps his on a leather cord around his neck, safe beneath his armour and undershirt. The one he wears is shaped like flame.<br/><br/>They were all Glenn’s, once upon a time. He had left four behind on the day he rode to Duscur, sitting on his nightstand where Lady Fraldarius later found them.<br/><br/>Glenn’s grave in the Fraldarius crypt lies empty. Miklan’s body was refused burial in the Gautier crypt. The Blaiddyd family crypt has been destroyed, and King Lambert’s body desecrated.<br/><br/>In the depths of Felix’s satchel, wrapped tightly in a piece of cloth, is Glenn’s last amulet, shaped like the sun.<br/><br/>It belongs to the king.<br/><br/>“Wake <em>up</em>,” Glenn-in-his-dreams hisses, and Sylvain clutches at his head, pulling at the fiery strands of his hair. “Don’t die with regret, as I did. <em>Live</em>.”<br/><br/><em>Duscur took many things that day, </em>Sylvain thinks, as he rides through the forest with Felix at his back and Ingrid above him. <em>But it didn’t take us. We’re here. We’re alive.<br/><br/></em>In the depths of his soul, Sylvain knows Dimitri yet lives.<br/><br/></p><hr/><p><em><br/>Who was Glenn to you?<br/><br/>Everything</em>, Sylvain thinks. <em>He was everything.</em><br/><br/>“He was my brother.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Many thanks to the <a href="https://twitter.com/sylvainzine">Sylvain Zine</a> for allowing me to be a part of this amazing opportunity and to write more sad fic about my favourite Three Houses character 💕</p><p>Thank you for reading and supporting the zine!</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Work Notes:</b>
</p><p><i>ends of smoky days</i><br/>- From 'Memory'<br/>- "burnt out ends of smoky days; the stale, cold smell of morning / the streetlamp dies, another night is over, another day is dawning / daylight, i must wait for the sunrise, i must think of a new life, and i mustn't give in / when the dawn comes, tonight will be a memory too / and a new day will begin"</p><p><i>Old Faerghan folktales</i><br/>- The one Sylvain’s nursemaid tells is 'The Pit and the Pendulum' by Edgar Allan Poe. Not a bedtime story for children by any means—unless you live in Gautier, I guess.</p><p><i>Bucephalus</i><br/>- The name of Alexander the Great’s horse, and one of the most famous horses in classical history.</p><p><i>The Wyvern and the Crafty Boy</i><br/>- A famous Almyran folktale. In some circles in Almyra, there is also the persistent belief that both the Wyvern and the Crafty Boy will return one day, and usher in Almyra’s Golden Age ;)</p><p>Come hang out and yell with me about fe3h on twitter at <a href="https://twitter.com/halfcharacter">halfcharacter</a> !</p></blockquote></div></div>
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